


Dower House Quadrille

by TwoWeevils



Category: Unknown Ajax - Georgette Heyer
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Humor, Regency, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoWeevils/pseuds/TwoWeevils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major Hugo Darracott, heir to the Darracott honours, lands and title, sipped his brandy and stretched his long legs under the dining table. “I won’t say I’m well pleased with how long it’s taking to set the Dower House to rights.” He glanced at his grandfather, Lord Darracott of Darracott Place, deep in conversation with his cousin Vincent at the head of the table. “But finding another builder at this late stage will just mean pushing the wedding date back again, and I’ll not be the one to tell Anthea she’s to re-write the invitation cards again!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dower House Quadrille

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancarett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancarett/gifts).



“Well, you may call him a genius, coz, but I think he’s a dashed nuisance!” Claud Darracott snapped the lid of his elegant silver and mother-of-pearl snuffbox closed to emphasize his point. “What’s more, he’s pegged you for a green’un and means to milk you dry.”

Major Hugo Darracott, heir to the Darracott honours, lands and title, sipped his brandy and stretched his long legs under the dining table. “I won’t say I’m well pleased with how long it’s taking to set the Dower House to rights.” He glanced at his grandfather, Lord Darracott of Darracott Place, deep in conversation with his cousin Vincent at the head of the table. “But finding another builder at this late stage will just mean pushing the wedding date back again, and I’ll not be the one to tell Anthea she’s to re-write the invitation cards again.”

“Never!” Claud shuddered. “I shall never recover from the tongue-lashing she gave me when I suggested setting your wedding date closer to the end of the Season.” Claud sipped his brandy. “I don’t mind telling you, coz, that I’d liefer marry a tradesman’s daughter than a gal with a temper like Anthea’s.”

“Marry? You?” Lord Darracott, suddenly taking notice, sputtered, setting his glass on the table with a small bang. “I wish I may live to see the lady who’d accept the addresses of a damned man-milliner like you!”

Claud flushed and was about to retort when his brother intervened, “Now, Grandfather, that’s not entirely fair. A gentleman of Claud’s fortune and, er, impeccable taste in draperies must be considered an eligible _parti_ on the marriage mart.” Vincent smirked at Claud. “Besides, if Claud wishes to marry a tradesman’s daughter, I’m sure I may wish him well.” He glanced at Hugo. “Others have done so with startlingly happy results.”

Claud’s colour deepened. “Of course! I didn’t mean – that is, I’m sure, Hugo, that your mother was everything that is elegant and –“

“Enough!” Lord Darracott thumped the table with the side of his fist. “Claud, you may join the ladies, and take your cousin with you. I’ve had quite enough of your insipid blithering for one evening.”

Hugo drained his glass and rose, unhurriedly. “Happen he’s reet, Claud. Her Ladyship will be wanting you for the card table and I owe our Richmond a letter.” He made his bow to his grandfather and looked up with the barest hint of a grin. “I must say that brandy was champion, sir.” With a gesture to Claud, Hugo made for the dining room door.

“Indeed, coz." Claud took a judicious sip. "Dashed if the excise stamp don't improve the flavour!”

“Out of my sight!” his Lordship thundered. “The pair of you!”

***

The early morning sun glinted off the windows of the Dower House.  With the ivy pulled down, and the shrubbery tamed, the house no longer resembled a habitat for wandering spirits.  The interior, although clean and looking far from haunted, appeared to have suffered a different kind of invasion.  Rotting floorboards had been pulled up and replaced, the walls had been cleaned and the crumbling plaster repaired. The chimneys had been swept, and polished wood gleamed in almost all of the public rooms. The drawing room and main bedrooms were papered and carpeted.

Regrettably, most of Aunt Matty’s furniture – having been thoroughly besmirched by cats – had to be thrown away, but a few unsullied pieces remained. These, along with a judicious selection of surplus items from the great house and the booty from a whirlwhind tour of London’s warehouses, made the rooms both elegant and comfortable.

Anthea Darracott ran a proprietary hand along the shining balusters as she made her way upstairs toward the sound of hammers, rasps and heaven knew what other instruments of industry currently being employed to turn the Dower House into her home.

“It’s dry rot, Major Darracott.” Although he spoke like a gentleman, the man’s vaguely colonial voice still struck Anthea as outlandish, despite the fact that she’d been hearing it for months. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to replace the roof support beams.”

“What?” Anthea’s tone was equal parts outrage and dread. “Beams? Dry rot? And how much longer, pray, will I have to postpone my wedding day this time?”

At the sound of his betrothed’s voice, Hugo turned and smiled. “There you are, love.” He stretched a hand toward her to help her up the last steps to the attics. “I’m glad you’ve come. You must see the new patent water-closet off your dressing room.  They’ve just fitted it out and you’ll…”

“I’ll thank you, sir, to give me no more of your nonsense about patent water closets, or closed stoves, or any other fripperies until you can tell me when – ” Anthea stepped closer and glared menacingly at Hugo, who was put uncomfortably in mind of their grandfather in a rage. “ _When_ will this…this...monument to masculine vanity be finished?”

Hugo blinked at her, his face falling. “Do you mean you don’t like it, love?”

“Like it?” Anthea looked about her at the sawdust and half-sawn beams. “How can I tell if I like it when I don’t know what it will be like to live here when it’s finished…or if it will ever _be_ finished!”

“Of course it will be finished. We just want to make sure it’s done right!” Hugo turned to the large man in faded workman’s clothing who had moved a discreet distance away when Anthea arrived, “Isn’t that true, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, Mister Darracott, that’s exactly it. If I may, ma’am” – he inclined his head in acknowledgment of a lady’s presence – “it’s lucky my men found this dry rot before we finished the attic. With all the holes to be patched in the roof, they scarcely noticed some of the roof beams were crumbling to dust.” He shook his head and looked grave. “It’s a shame to see a fine old house like this let go to ruin, ma’am, but we’ll make it right, I promise you.”

“I say we’re lucky to have Mr. Holmes on the job, love.” The Major nodded at Holmes, who returned to directing his workmen. “His designs and techniques are in great demand, yet he makes time to work with his men on each project from start to finish.”

“Well, I say you’ll be lucky to have a bride waiting for you if this carries on much longer!” Anthea turned and stalked down the attic steps.

Hugo hurried after her. “Now, lass—” Anthea turned at the foot of the steps and glared at Hugo. He flushed, “Sorry, la--, I mean love. Let’s not fratch over this again.”

“I will _fratch_ and I will also _brangle_ all I like until this wretched house is finished!” Delaying their wedding until the Dower House was ready had been Hugo’s idea. He had wanted to start their married life in their own home, away from his Lordship’s queer starts and bursts of temper. But the delays were fraying Anthea’s own temper. She shook some sawdust from her skirts and cut a sideways look at Hugo. “And you can stop looking at me like that!”

Hugo blinked. “Like what, love?”

“Like…like an overgrown puppy who’s disgraced himself on the drawing room rug!”

Hugo’s laugh was deep and unrestrained. Anthea soon found herself joining him, laughing until her eyes watered. Of all the things she loved about this giant who had captured her heart, his ability to share in her sense of the absurd was among her favourite. “Really, Hugo, when _will_ the house be finished?”

***

On the main floor of the Dower House, Claud carried a length of fabric just arrived from London toward a sitting room at the back of the house. After poring over sample books for weeks, Anthea had finally conceded to his vision for this room in the form of a pair of exquisitely embroidered curtains in a delicate blush-hued silk across the large bay window.

Claud was anxious to confirm the excellence of his choice. In London, he was much sought-after by ladies wishing to furbish up their drawing rooms in the latest mode.  Happily, his penchant for eccentricities of dress – today’s ensemble included a marigold-coloured coat with jonquil pantaloons – was not reflected in his philosophy on interior design.

Entering from the dim hall, Claud was momentarily blinded by the bright sun through the window.  It wouldn’t do to stumble over a stray footstool and risk damaging the silk, so he hesitated by the door until his eyes could adjust. He was startled by the sound of movement near the window.

Although he’d never really believed the Dower House was haunted – and it certainly didn’t appear to be so now – Claud’s dread of rats and lively distaste for Spurstow, the erstwhile caretaker of the Dower House, made him nervous. “Is someone there?”

“Begging your pardon, sir.” A figure knelt in the shadow beneath the large and as-yet uncurtained bay window. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me; I merely started at the sound.” He peered more closely. “What are you doing there?”

“Just kerfing the baseboard round the bay here, sir,” replied the youth in a slightly husky, but pleasantly low-pitched voice.

“Kerfing the –” Claud squinted into the gloom. “You one of Mr. Holmes’ boys?”  

“Er…yes, Mr. Darracott, sir.” The workman began tidying his tools into a sturdy wooden box.

“Hold a moment.” Claud draped the fabric over his shoulder. “Let me see your hands.”

“My hands, sir?”

“Yes, your hands!” Claud snapped impatiently. “If they’re clean enough, you can oblige me by holding  this silk up to the window so I can see the effect from the middle of the room.”

The youth, dressed in breeches and a smock of pale homespun, rose with surprising grace, and, moving in front of the window, brushed his hands together before holding them out to Claud. The brightness of the light through the window, cast the workman’s features into shadow but shone through the thin fabric of his smock.

“Good gad!” Claud took a step backward and put a hand in front of his face.

 “Are you quite well, sir?” The youth took a step toward Claud. “Shall I fetch some water?”

“You…” Claud blinked and shook his head, then peeked around his hand. The youth’s golden hair was tied in a queue and the sun now shone on golden skin with just a hint of peach about the cheeks and a few freckles sprinkled about the upturned nose. “You’re not a boy!” Claud cried.

The girl’s eyes widened. She glanced down at herself, gasped and leaped sideways into shadow. “Please, sir! Please don’t say anything, my father would be ever so upset.”

“Why are you dressed as a boy? What are you doing here?” Claud busied himself with the length of silk, then risked a quick glance at the golden creature before him, struck by how well she might look in just that shade of pink.

“I’m Sherry Holmes and I work with my father, sir.” She held up a hammer and shrugged a little. “It’s what I know.”

“But what can Holmes be thinking, letting his own daughter caper about dressed as a boy?” Claud tugged gently at his neckcloth. “That sort of rig may be all the crack in the colonies, but it’s not at all the thing here. You’re just a child!”

“I’m turned twenty.” She stood a little straighter, “I wouldn’t stay at school and Father didn’t  know what to do with me when he got the Chatsworth commission, so --” She brushed a stray hair behind her ear and smiled. “Here I am. Besides, most people don’t notice Father’s workmen.”

“But you--” Claud tugged a little less gently at his neckcloth. “You’re beautiful! A goddess! How can people not notice you?”

Sherry glanced down at herself again and reddened. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I have my work to finish.” Bending to pick up her tools, but keeping the hammer in a firm grip – in her time working on the Dower House, she had heard tales of the elegant Claud Darracott’s attentions to females of humble origins – the girl skittered past him and out the door.

Claud made no protest, still blinded by a vision of golden loveliness. At a touch, he could tell that his neckcloth was ruined. And, for the first time since he was out of short coats, Claud didn’t care.

***

Elvira Darracott beamed as she looked about the well-appointed and new-furbished dining room of the Dower House.  A glance at the head of the table showed her daughter chatting animatedly with her brother, just home from his regiment on Christmas furlough. At the foot of the table, her son-in-law responded amiably to his grandfather’s grumblings.  

The meal had passed off beautifully and Anthea prepared to signal the ladies to withdraw, when a tinkling of silver on crystal caused the bubble of conversation to begin to die down.  Mid-way along the table, Vincent stood. “If I could have your attention for just a moment, please!”

All eyes turned expectantly toward Vincent. Elvira glanced at Anthea and saw her apprehension, while  next to her, Richmond’s eyes sparkled in anticipation. At the other end of the table, Hugo wore his habitual expression of bovine placidity.  Matthew Darracott exchanged a look with his wife, but Lady Aurelia appeared unconcerned.

“Thank you.” Vincent raised his wineglass. “Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to propose a toast.” He looked around the room. “Unaccustomed as I am to speaking in public” – he paused as his father made a huffing sound –  “I wish to say how happy I am to be here with _all_ my family at this festive time of year.” 

Anthea glared daggers at Vincent, but he merely winked at her. “We are here in this beautifully restored house through the good offices of my new sister-in-law and her esteemed father.”  A small clinking sound as Claud put down his fork and seemed to swell through the chest. “Peace, brother. Peace. I merely wish to – since most of us were denied the felicity of attending your nuptials – welcome Mr. Holmes, or Sir Michael Holmes as I _should_ say – and his lovely daughter to the family.”

“Hear, hear!” Richmond raised his glass to his lips, but Vincent wasn’t finished.

“I also want to congratulate Sir Michael on his elevation to the knighthood and, incidentally, my own parents for their efforts in that cause.”  This time Matthew began to swell through the chest, only to be quelled by a look from his formidable wife. “To the happy couple, I wish every joy and look forward to their continued and, er, _fruitful_ collaboration.”  Vincent looked round the room again, letting his eye rest for an instant on the newest Mrs. Darracott, who blushed a shade deeper than the delicate rose of her gown, but did not lower her gaze.

Claud half-rose from his chair this time; across the table, Lord Darracott muttered, “Sit down, boy. Vincent’s in the right of it. Never thought I’d see you married, let alone...”

As Claud’s face darkened and he opened his mouth to speak, Lady Aurelia laid a hand on his arm and exchanged a speaking glance with Anthea, who promptly mustered her ladies toward the drawing room.

“Hold just a moment, my very dear cousin. I am reaching a point.” Vincent raised his glass a little higher and turned toward Hugo. “Finally, I honour my cousin, our kind host, for all he has done to bring our family to its current enviable estate. _You have convinced me, Ajax:_ _your mind is the clearer, and your virtues the fairer._ When I am obliged to seek out a wife, I shall no doubt marry my housekeeper. For now, however, I would like to felicitate our esteemed grandfather, who has fulfilled his dearest wish – to see the lady who would receive the addresses of – what was the phrase, Claud? – ah yes, a man-milliner – and who may now gracefully retire.”

At this juncture, with some of the party staring open-mouthed at Vincent and the rest considering the best means of stopping him from going further, Sir Michael rose to his feet. “My respect for your family,  Mr. Darracott, knows no bounds, and I thank you sincerely for your kind words. If I may raise a glass to you and to Lord Darracott, in return…?”

Vincent bowed curtly and resumed his seat. Lord Darracott gave a fraction of a nod, and thus reassured, Sir Michael continued. “I’ll be leaving for Upper Canada within the fortnight; now that we have seen my daughter suitably settled, my son and I have accepted a commission from the new government at York.”

“Get on with it, man,” Lord Darracott was heard to utter.

“We will, of course, return to England from time to time, and hope to return your hospitality at a later date. But I would not dare leave if it were not for the welcome my daughter has received at your hands. It’s as I told you long ago, my dear,” he said, turning to Sherry. “When I set out to do something, don’t I always make it right?”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of having Mike Holmes restore the Dower House was too delicious too resist. Then Claud kind of took over...thanks, ancarett for the wonderful Yuletide prompt. I hope you like the result. And thanks, as always to Kweevil, my closer, my beta, the love of my life.


End file.
